


No Miracle

by sapphirejubilee



Series: A Million Confessions [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Doughnuts and Warm Fireplaces, I Would Do Anything For You and It's Ruining My Life, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:08:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21537220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphirejubilee/pseuds/sapphirejubilee
Summary: “Angel, please, don’t make me fall deeper in love with you any more than I already am,” Crowley snapped, face darkening but in a way Aziraphale hadn’t seen since he’d called him “nice” that one time.  It wasn’t the usual moody, unhappy shift that he was used to...this was something colorful, intense, burning with self-loathing instead of simmering below-surface.  “See, I’ve already made a mistake.  Any more, and I might do something we’d both regret.  I should go.  I should go.”Aziraphale discovers that Crowley, for better or worse, would do anything to please him.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: A Million Confessions [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1552420
Comments: 11
Kudos: 152





	No Miracle

_A LOVE STORY BY THE LAST REAL WITCH_

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A beignet right now would be nice.

Aziraphale licked his lips, trying to remember the name of that shop back in New Orleans that made them best. Toasted golden, hot in his hands, emanating the scent of freshly baked dough and heat, and smothered in powdered sugar. His mouth watered at the very thought of simply holding one.

“Oh, dear,” he sighed aloud, forgetting that he was not alone. The snake curled around his shoulder immediately sat up and stared at him intently.

“What’ssss the matter?” Crowley asked, worried.

“Nothing! Nothing,” Aziraphale blushed. “It’s just, ohhh, I do miss the beignets back at that greasy spoon we used to frequent…ah, but it’s silly!” He laughed nervously. “Pure foolishness, I’m afraid. I’ll never taste another one,” he mourned quietly.

Crowley hissed again, and began to slither down his shoulder. Aziraphale felt a little disappointed – as embarrassing as it was, he actually enjoyed having Crowley curled up in snake form near him, even if he merely pretended to tolerate it out of angelic generosity. Crowley slithered onto the floor, having learned from the last time he transformed without waiting to hit the ground first, and slowly transitioned back into his usual form. Aziraphale pretended to suddenly take intent interest in his book again, as Crowley stood up behind him and placed his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Beignetsssssss, wasssss it?” Crowley murmured. 

“Y-yes,” Aziraphale said, embarrassed, “B-but it’s nothing-”

“I’ll be right back,” Crowley said in the same, sullen voice, as if he’d just been ordered to do an unpleasant chore. He turned his back to Aziraphale and started to walk towards the door. 

“Wait - where are you going?” Aziraphale asked, confused. 

Crowley made no attempt to respond and closed the door after him.

 _Oh, heavens, he’s not going TO NEW ORLEANS, is he? Even if he does, it’s not as if he can order beignets from that particular restaurant, it closed down!_ Aziraphale thought to himself, growing more and more nervous by the second. 

“I...well, I never,” Aziraphale stared at the platter in front of him. Crowley reached out and Aziraphale flinched, but all he did was push it slightly closer towards him. _Oh, dear. Oh, dear!_ “How did you even-”

“Don’t ask too many questions, angel,” Crowley mumbled roughly. Aziraphale shut his mouth immediately, even though he knew he wasn’t actually being threatened. 

Then, without another word, he turned to leave again.

“You’re going?” Aziraphale sputtered. “Aren’t you going to - to-”

“Gotta go,” Crowley mumbled. 

“But - well, I have to thank you first,” Aziraphale stammered, “This - this is - Crowley, this is too much!”

Crowley frowned. “Well, you don’t have to eat it,” he said, almost sulkily. “It’s quite fine if you throw them away - really, I don’t care,” he nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets flippantly to show exactly how indifferent he felt.

“Of course I’m going to eat them,” Aziraphale said, feeling his face turn red, “But of course I must thank you - why don’t you have one, at least?” He reached over. “Before you leave - agh, if you have enough time to,” he added hopefully.

Crowley took a long, good look at him. It almost made Aziraphale nervous, as if he were being judged, but he told himself to take a deep breath. Crowley cocked his head to one side, as if satisfied with his observations and ready to make his decision.

“I’m afraid I have business to attend to,” he said lazily, “But I will be back, same time tomorrow. See you.”

With that, he escorted himself out, ignoring Aziraphale’s pleas and demands to know where the beignets were from.

The room felt strangely empty and quiet now, even though most of their time together in the bookstore was spent in silent contemplation. Aziraphale stole a glance at the doughnut platter again and, overcome with temptation, decided to take one.

The one that was absolutely loaded with powdered sugar was calling to his stomach, just begging to be eaten. And Aziraphale acquiesced to its pleas.

Walking over to the platter, he picked up the beignet and almost brought it to his mouth, then stopped to examine it. He knew that food could be miracled one way or another, and deep down he longed to know exactly how much of it was. Was it partially homemade, half-miracle, Crowley’s own labor of love, or _all_ miracle? Sometimes, it hurt his head to think of these things, but one couldn’t help but wonder.

This was a task for his reading glasses, which he retrieved from their polished case and quickly wiped before putting them on.

After a few hours and distractions, his Googling proved worth the immense waste of time. Apparently, although the original restaurant burned down to smithereens, the owner and his family did indeed survive the fire and one of his direct descendants, Amos, was a professor at Tulane University. However his master’s thesis was on why family restaurants were a source of strife and family rifts, so most likely Crowley must have paid at visit to his cousin, Marty, who worked at a Walmart and had a cooking youtube channel.

“Fascinating,” Aziraphale murmured, watching Marty fumble with the camera as he explained his attack plan for the horseradish that was supposed to go into the meatloaf. After a few videos, Aziraphale decided that Marty was also a lost cause, and perhaps Crowley made the doughnuts out of thin air. 

“That’s not so bad,” he said aloud to himself, taking another sip of hot cocoa. This was nice, he realized, sipping cocoa and eating beignets like old times. 

_Oh, if only he could have tried one of these_ , Aziraphale lamented. _They are heavenly._

He began to doze off after that, but before he did, he left a mental note to give Crowley something in return the next time he saw him. 

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He forgot to, of course. Anything that is not written down will be lost to the vacillating waters of the human mind. 

It only came back to him, like a bottle with a secret message abruptly vomited back onto land by the ocean, when they were in the bookstore by themselves again. It was a night not unlike that one so long ago. It was oddly warm, which made Aziraphale wonder if maybe he accidentally left the heat on (that simply couldn’t do... a bookstore that never sells its books is, surprisingly, not an extremely lucrative business venture, and did not pay the heating bills or _any_ of his bills as far as Aziraphale was concerned). 

So warm, Aziraphale thought to himself, almost considering taking off his waistcoat. Not only warm, but something about tonight feels so nice...What is this feeling? It’s almost...cozy, he realized, with a vague twinge of surprise. Something in the air, perhaps. 

He turned around, instantly knowing what he was looking for.

“Hullo, angel,” Crowley said, so pale and haggard he almost resembled a fireplace-poker, something which Anathema didn’t know was a thing when he was forced to explain to an annoyingly nosy young woman how he maintained his non-OSHA-compliant fireplace. 

“Hello, dear,” Aziraphale replied immediately, inhaling sharply when he noticed how weirdly shiny Crowley’s snakeskin shoes were. “New shoes?” He asked nervously, suddenly giddy. _What’s wrong with me? It’s just a visit between good friends._

Crowley looked down at his shoes, looking glummer than ever. “Do they look new?” He asked, as if the news depressed him. “I’ve been wearing these for a good few decades, angel.” He took a few morose, stiff steps towards the couch opposite Aziraphale and put one worn, long-fingered hand on its arm, not sitting. Aziraphale stared at his hand, wondering how he hadn’t noticed just how long Crowley’s fingers were...long and slender, yes, but also hard and calloused. Oh my. He could use some hand cream. Did snakes use hand cream? Wait, no hands. Never mind. 

“Your hands show your true age,” Aziraphale said without thinking, then regretted it immediately. Crowley looked over at him again, this time radiating such a foul and dark vapor that he could not help but feel somewhat downtrodden himself. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to insult, my dear.”

“Can’t help it, I suppose,” Crowley mumbled, withdrawing his hand so he could put it in his pocket, and Aziraphale wanted to whine. Yes, his palms were cracked and somewhat bony-looking, but something about them made him want to grab them by the fingers and hold them out. Aziraphale wrinkled his nose, trying to figure out what was making him so batty about Crowley’s hands. Perhaps he hadn’t had enough to eat today. “Demons do a lot of dirty work. Our wrinkles may be the most honest thing we can afford to show.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale said softly. 

That was the only response he could think of. Sometimes Crowley was in a better mood; usually, when they drank together, he might open up a little and laugh at Aziraphale’s jokes, and on the rare occasion when they supped he would watch quietly and smile ever so slightly. But when he got into his moods, he could say some terribly dark stuff. Stuff that Aziraphale never knew quite how to respond to, except “Oh.” He wished he could do something else.

“Anyways. Old hat, all that. How are you?” 

“I’m doing fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes, marvelous.”

“Hm.” Crowley looked around. He lifted his hand out of his pocket ever so slightly.

Aziraphale inhaled, watching, waiting. 

“I suppose I’ll be off,” Crowley murmured, looking back down at his shoes.

Aziraphale’s heart did a weird wobble and then fell over to the side. 

“Already?” He asked, trying to keep his face straight. “It’s cold outside, isn’t it? You should stay in, just to, you know. Keep yourself from discorporating.” It was hard to tell because of the sunglasses, but Crowley raised his eyebrow. “There’s humans out there, getting frostbite and whatnot. Surely you can afford to wait another few minutes?”

For a moment, he thought Crowley might not relent. And then he let his shoulders fall back to his sides, his hand relaxing slightly. “For you, sure.” 

He slumped against the rest of the armchair, something Aziraphale would normally protest about if it were anyone else, but the way he crossed his legs and lounged so nonchalantly was distracting. So many things to worry about. The way his pant legs stuck so closely to his skin, for example. Were those...women’s jeans? And the fit of his dress shirt...and the way that ankle skin peeked out from beneath his pant leg, dangling casually over the edge of the armchair as if he weren’t weighed down by the infinite machinations of an effable world run by an unknowable God.

“Are you hungry?” Crowley asked out loud, and for a second Aziraphale thought he might be asking himself. After all, he looked hungry himself, so bony and with nothing to protect his exposed neck from the cold... _God_ , what a neck that was. A solid second passed before he realized he was speaking to him.

“Me?” Aziraphale asked, surprised. Of course not. It was past eleven PM, and he had already had his dinner. His after-meal cup of cocoa (which Crowley had surprisingly not noticed) was already by his side, steaming like anything. 

_Still_ steaming? He stared at it, and out of the corner of his eye caught Crowley slipping his left hand back into his pocket. _Did he just do a miracle while Aziraphale wasn’t watching?_ He was getting distracted now, running in all directions and getting nowhere.

“Is it too hot?” Crowley asked.

“No...no,” Aziraphale replied sheepishly, almost embarrassed to acknowledge it. So he did notice it. And he thought I might like him to warm. “Thank you,” he said awkwardly.

Surprisingly, Crowley accepted the thanks. “It looked unpleasant,” Crowley remarked. “Cold. Unwanted. Probably easy forgotten…it won’t taste half as good, you know,” he said, raising his head slightly, and Aziraphale could see the rim of golden eyes peering from above his spectacles. 

“Yes...yes,” Aziraphale replied, bringing it to his lips. It wasn’t scalding, just hot enough, the way he liked it. “Thank you.”

Crowley grunted, not willing to accept thanks a second time. 

They passed a moment of silence, Aziraphale bringing the cup to his lips to take a sip and then swallowing and breathing in, with Crowley leaning his head on his hand pensively and not budging from his precarious perch on the armchair. As he drank, more questions bubbled up like hot liquid, and he had to drink bigger and bigger gulps of tea to wash them down. Yet again and again, they continued to rise up, threatening to spill from his mouth like a million prophecies then fall to the floor and shatter. Why? And did any of this mean anything? Could he, maybe, if it wasn’t a bother…

“Do you play the piano?” Aziraphale blurted out. 

“Hn?” 

“I, er, just wondering.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows again. Aziraphale stared at his gaudy spectacles, wishing for the first time that they were not there. He wanted so badly to see those amber eyes, with their strange snakelike pupils, just anything that might lend him into a glimpse into Crowley’s thoughts. “I’ve played, sure. On and off. You?”

“Oh...no,” Aziraphale laughed. “I suppose we have all the time now, though, don’t we?”

Crowley’s mouth turned up ever so slightly, and Aziraphale felt like grinning. “Yeah,” he said, a little less morose.

That was the right word! “Yes,” Aziraphale smiled, “All the time to do the things we’ve never been able to,” he tried, flashing his best grin.

This somehow made Crowley depressed again. His shoulders slumped again. “Yes, I suppose.” 

What did he say wrong? Oh, fool! Heaven’s fool! He wanted to empty his teacup of hot cocoa on his head and melt away.

“So, how well can you play the piano?” Aziraphale tried desperately. “When was the last time?”

“Not very recently, angel,” Crowley replied. “I usually forget the instruments after a few centuries. It’s natural…” He stood up, and Aziraphale stared at the way his shirt hung off of his torso. “I don’t suppose you have one.”

Aziraphale looked over his shoulder. “Except for that one,” he said a bit too eagerly, nodding at the dark corner of his bookshop. Crowley stared at it. “Always keep one h-handy,” he said, as if that might make the lie true.

Crowley stared at it, walking around it not unlike the way he sometimes circled Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s lip quivered, nervous that Crowley might say “I’ve never seen that before” or “You’re ridiculous if you think I’ll play for you at this hour.” But he didn’t. He gently eased out the bench, made as comfortable as Aziraphale could possibly imagine a piano bench to be, and elegantly slung his legs across it in a way that made Aziraphale want to rewatch it. He reached out, grabbed the handles, and pushed back the lid. 

_He must be testing it, to see if it’s just a miracle,_ Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat. _Oh no. Maybe I should’ve put a Yamaha on it._

Crowley did not inspect the piano for a Yamaha, however. He reached out...calling Aziraphale’s attention to his slender, long fingers...and pressed a key. The note rang out in the silence of the bookstore, and died out. He played a chord, then pressed both hands to the keys to play a sequence of scales. Aziraphale marveled at how quickly and fluidly his hands moved, almost as if he’d been practicing his whole life. For what, though? And for _who?_ Surely Beelzebub didn’t require weekly demonic piano lessons. 

Perhaps he imagined Crowley’s piano playing to be clumsy or awkward, but it was none of those things. The notes flowed quietly, with ease and grace. Each note blended into the next, quiet and surprisingly nuanced. Before he could catch up, they rapidly crescendoed into something louder, more dramatic and colorful. Yet always, there was a degree of control, of emotion, each note with a flourish that did not need to be there but Crowley had deliberately selected and added.

Aziraphale watched, almost incredulous, and disappointed that he had never known Crowley could play like this. “Laying it heavy on the miracles, are you, dear boy?” He asked, trying to stop the weird bubbly feeling in his belly that was threatening to rise up his lungs and into his heart. 

Crowley stopped, and Aziraphale instantly mourned the music. “There are no miracles, angel,” he said matter-of-factly, and put his hands at his sides. “My hands do not lie.” 

Aziraphale wanted to laugh out loud, because _of course_ there were still miracles. Even if Heaven and Hell had long ago narrowed their eyes at them, they still worked the mystery of inexplicable phenomena that only creatures of God could do. Just now, he had used a miracle to appear in the bookstore and warm his cocoa! Of _course_ there were still miracles. 

“No - no miracles?” Aziraphale asked, amused. 

“No miracle.” Crowley pushed his spectacles further up his nose. 

Aziraphale wanted to snatch those stupid glasses off his face and...well, what? Kiss him? He had no idea what to think. Was Crowley’s mouth as interesting as his hands?

“Well?” Crowley asked pointedly. “What did you think?” 

He thought Crowley was saying that there was no such thing as miracles anymore. 

But that was not at all, not at all what Crowley was saying, and he realized it a second too late, yet again. 

The way Crowley’s hands dawdled nervously in his lap, unsure of what to do, betrayed him. _He wants to know,_ Aziraphale thought to himself wildly. _He wants to know if it was good or not! He’s...he’s_ showing off!

“You are...very good,” Aziraphale said, leaning into the compliment and trying to draw it out as long as he possibly could, like a sweet on his tongue. “I’ve never heard such expression and skill since we were with Newton...ah, Beethoven, um, no, Mozart,” he said rapidly, falling all over himself. “I think it was marvelous, actually. You should be a professional. How come you never told me you were such a talented musician?” He asked, ever so faintly whining. Perhaps that might offend Crowley. Crowley probably didn’t appreciate whining. 

“I wasn’t always good,” Crowley replied. “Trumpet didn’t go well, and neither did violin, harp, or guitar. Nobody plays hurdy-gurdy anymore, and you mentioned that you hate lyres. Bagpipes was far too hard, after a while I just gave up entirely on anything that required blowing. This is the only one that doesn’t leave scars and most diners will have, though not the easiest to transport.” 

Aziraphale would’ve chuckled, but something else distracted him again. “Pardon, you said you didn’t want to learn the lyre...because…?”

“Och, I wouldn’t know, I assume cause Gabriel used to carry one,” Crowley replied, before realizing his mistake. “I mean...that bastard Nero played one during the burning,” he sneered, “I’m not gonna play an instrument with that kind of blood on it.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said slowly, the pieces coming together.

“I should go,” Crowley said. “I should go. It’s cold. You know? Cats and dogs raining...might be dolphins, soon,” he added, standing up abruptly and knocking his knee into the piano-that-wasn’t-supposed-to-be-there-but-somehow-had-always-been. “Dolphins. Did it rain dolphins during Armageddon? That can’t be good for them or the ocean…”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, a little louder so it would be harder for him to ignore it. “Before you go, could you do me a favor?” Crowley stopped. “I’ve been craving beignets ever since last time, where did you get them? Do tell me so I can fetch them myself.”

Crowley blushed and Aziraphale relished the small triumph. 

“They were so nice,” Aziraphale continued, “Quite sweet, they hit the spot. Did you make them yourself? You didn’t miracle them, did you? Surely not at an hour like this...all respectable establishments would’ve been closed.”

Too far. Crowley looked as if he was going to slither away again.

“Could you fetch me another plate?” Aziraphale asked, wrapping it with a request to make it a little easier. “Of course, don’t worry yourself if it’s too late, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you-” 

That, Crowley could do. He stood up straighter. “It’s no trouble,” he said gruffly, still stiff but less morose than before. More energetic, almost. He walked to the door, opened it and let himself out. “I’ll be back in no time.” He shut it, silently, without locking. The lock clicked itself into place right after him.

Aziraphale took another sip of his warm, steaming cocoa, counting in his head because he didn’t dare say a word aloud. His heartbeat counted along with him, anxious and anticipatory. When more time passed by, he began to calm down and told himself he might be hoping for something ridiculous. But still, he kept track of the time, muttering under his breath, three hundred seventy-three, three hundred seventy-two, three hundred seventy-one, three hundred seventy two, three hundred seventy-three…

The door opened and shut itself neatly, and Crowley had a small cardboard box in one hand. _Wrapped it up to make it look like take-out,_ Aziraphale noticed, _what a sly snake, using a doggy bag to disguise his own homemade cooking._

“You’re quicker this time,” Aziraphale said boldly. But Crowley’s body did not tense up the way it did when he knew he had offended him. _Interesting_. Aziraphale leaned forward and Crowley gently handed off the box to him, like a picnic basket with a baby inside. 

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale said, opening it but not looking inside. Crowley nodded, but did not respond. Instead of making an attempt to slink away, he stood in place, almost waiting. _The poor man’s dying of curiosity,_ Aziraphale realized to himself. _He didn’t get to see last time. He wants to know if I was lying or if I really did...really did like…_

Aziraphale reached into the box, picking out a perfect beignet. Of course it was perfect, because they all were, made intentionally to be what he liked. Soft, warm and sweet. The very opposite of what Crowley was at all times, so unhappy and dissatisfied-looking. Well, no more, that had no business being the status quo after the Apocalypse. Aziraphale raised the doughnut, and held it out to him. “You have the first bite, boy,” he declared, allowing some firmness to enter his voice. “Have at it.”

Crowley never ate in front of him, never. He’d seen him, but he hadn’t known at the time. Aziraphale had walked passed him, realizing who it was, opening a can of beer and draining it whole as if he wished to drown everything out. He’d seen him, huddled in a corner and hunched over, miserably chewing on some quasi-dinner, and remembered the shock of knowing Crowley did in fact consume food. Of course it was silly, knowing Crowley was also in a human body that would discorporate without food, but he knew of angels who simply miracled away the need and lived without eating (okay, just Gabriel did that because Gabriel was weird like that). 

Anyways, his chances of getting Crowley to eat were very unlikely.

“I’m on a diet,” Crowley said tensely, though not aggressively. Bad liar. “Sorry.” 

“Come now, Crowley, you know better than that,” Aziraphale said. “Just a bite won’t hurt. I need your help here, I can’t eat this all by myself.”

That was an even flimsier excuse, but Crowley had heard the words “need” and “help” and something about his mood had changed. He reached out, taking the doughnut with his lovely hand, and brought it to his lips. Aziraphale peered intently, noticing how his teeth were sharp like a snake’s fangs, the ways his pupils changed when he bit in...wait, what had happened to his glasses? Crowley seemed to notice, too, as he suddenly froze and brought his hand to his face. There were no spectacles on his face.

Aziraphale felt a pang of fear. Crowley immediately whirled around, getting powdered sugar everywhere. “Where’s my glasses?” He exclaimed loudly, all pretense of serenity abandoned. 

“I...uh...oh, look what I have here!” Aziraphale exclaimed, trying to remember what they looked like and conjure them rapidly. Crowley saw them in his hand and made a lunge for it. He immediately, without thinking about it, pulled them out of his reach.

What a precarious position they were in, Aziraphale in the armchair and Crowley stretched out over him, his knee in Aziraphale’s lap, arm reaching for what might or might not be his actual spectacles (he must’ve accidentally Miracled them out of existence, Aziraphale realized, out of a foolish desire to see his eyes). The same foolish desire that made him hold them away from Crowley’s grasping fingers.

“Give them to me,” Crowley snarled.

“I will, I will, just give me a moment-”

“They’re mine, angel, give them back-”

“I am! I am,” Aziraphale blushed, “I just - well, why now? You’ve never needed them around me before-”

“I’ve never had it as bad as now!” Crowley howled, and instantly seemed to regret it. He froze up. “Just give them to me,” he said dangerously softly, his face betraying him and making things all the worse.

Aziraphale felt awful and lowered his arms, wanting to hug him. “Oh Crowley, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said softly, and Crowley scrunched his face up as if he was trying to stop tears from coming out. _That bad? Oh, no no no. Poor boy._

“It’s my fault, I’m the one who let things get this bad,” Crowley heaved. “Just give them to me and I’ll go. I’ll let you be. I shouldn’t have come, anyway, it’s my fault. My fault.”

Aziraphale wanted to cry. He reached up with his other hand and tried to touch Crowley’s face. Crowley jerked away.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to tease you this hard,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley looked at him with confusion. “I hope I haven’t hurt your heart too much...are you, are you alright?”

Crowley was dangerously close to slithering away again, but he didn’t. Aziraphale breathed in.

“You’re not teasing me,” Crowley said. “It’s not teasing if you’re not interested.”

“Well what if I am? Interested?”

“Angel, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Go to bed.”

“We both know I don’t sleep, dear. And I think I do know...if you could let me talk with you, maybe-”

“Angel, please, don’t make me fall deeper in love with you any more than I already am,” Crowley snapped, face darkening but in a way Aziraphale hadn’t seen since he’d called him “nice” that one time. It wasn’t the usual moody, unhappy shift that he was used to...this was something colorful, intense, burning with self-loathing instead of simmering below-surface. “See, I’ve already made a mistake. Any more, and I might do something we’d both regret. I should go. I should go.”

“No!” Aziraphale yelled, reaching and grasping at whatever he could, which was Crowley’s hand. “Don’t leave now, Crowley, I just want to talk-”

“You know everything now!” Crowley yelled, shaking his hand free as if it had just burned him. “I swear, angel, just let me go and it’ll be fixed in the morning. I’ll never speak of it again and you won’t have to hear or see me, not again, I can be gone if you want to. Just, please, don’t give me any more hope than I already have-”

“What’s wrong with hope?” Aziraphale asked, frustrated. “Why can’t you hope? Why don’t you think it’s possible that I could love you back?”

“You’re mad! You’re mad. You’re not thinking straight, Azirapha - I should leave. I should leave-”

“No!” Aziraphale yelled, standing up and forgetting the beignets, which spilled everywhere, alarming Crowley. He ignored them and stepped forward to clasp Crowley’s hand. “You’re not wrong to hope, Crowley. You can hope with me. Please, just believe me. I think I’m a little in love with you too. Won’t you just stay and listen a minute, please?”

Crowley was, obviously, quite alarmed by the beignets and powdered sugar on Aziraphale’s carpet, which normally Aziraphale would be fussing about except he had bigger fish to fry. “I think your eyes are quite lovely,” he started babbling, using every trick he could think of to make the demon stay. “They’re so precious, all golden and jewel-like. Won’t you let me look at them a bit longer? You ought to try it out without the glasses, I think, you look quite fetching without them. Won’t you just try?”

As he spoke, he reached out and took Crowley’s hand, immensely afraid of a quick yank or slap, but neither of those things happened. Crowley looked down at the hands and then up, up at his eyes. He looked as if he was going to say something, and then didn’t. Aziraphale seized the chance.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t notice it with the beignets or the piano,” he said, “But I noticed it now, and I agree wholeheartedly, in fact I fancy you too quite a bit. I may not have known until now, but I do now, so let’s make the best of it, shall we? I could kiss you, if you like. Or you can kiss me. I...I don’t know where we would start. What does one do? Is a hug a good start? Please tell me, Crowley.”

Crowley looked at him, and Aziraphale stared at the way his long eyelashes caught in the light. Just as beautiful as when he had passed as Nanny Ashtoreth, or the first day he met him, with all that long curling red hair over his shoulders. His hair was no longer as long, but Aziraphale still wanted to run his hands through it. He wanted to run his fingers over _many_ things. Oh, this was all too much and not enough. 

“If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine, I can talk for the both of us,” Aziraphale added, and you can muster that. Do you, do you, do you love me?” 

Crowley looked down at the ground before he looked back up. For a second, Aziraphale thought he might send him a disgusted look and push him away. But he didn’t. He just nodded.

His heart fluttered. 

“I love you too, you know,” he rambled, “I didn’t know at first...but I know now that you’ve always loved me. I can sense it now, all around me, like a pleasant fire. I feel so warm and safe with you. Like at home.”

Crowley blushed again. Aziraphale liked it. He liked it a lot.

“I feel like I could kiss you, my dear.”

Crowley closed his eyes. “That’s fine.”

Aziraphale understood that was the most of an invitation he would be getting, but the consent was definitely there. Just to be safe, though, he tried again. “May I?”

A nod.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and leaned in, allowing them to touch. Aziraphale tilted his head experimentally and Crowley moved slightly beneath him, as if trying to still himself. Aziraphale pulled back and opened his eyes, wanting to see. 

“So, you really love me?” Aziraphale breathed softly. 

Crowley brought the hand on his cheek to his lips and kissed it, gently. “I do,” he said softly, his voice low and satisfying. Aziraphale decided he did have interesting lips as well after all. And an interesting voice. 

“Do that again,” Aziraphale breathed, and he did. Something fluttered in his stomach. “You _like_ me.”

“Yes,” Crowley admitted. That was a bit easier for him.

Something selfish and nasty came to life from within Aziraphale’s chest. “Kneel,” he said, and Crowley complied, sinking to one knee. “Both of them.” Crowley lowered his other leg, looking up expectantly. Aziraphale cradled his face in both hands, having a hard time believing his luck.

“You learned the piano for me?” He asked, softly as possible so as not to spook his demon.

“Yes,” Crowley replied. 

“No miracles.”

“No miracles,” Crowley replied. 

Aziraphale kissed him again. Crowley liked it. He tried to hide it, but it was evident to Aziraphale. All his weird, strange body language was starting to make sense to him. 

“Do you know how that makes me feel?”

“No,” Crowley lied.

Aziraphale decided to play along. “Well, it makes me very, very flattered. Whatever you thought, you were right because I am quite pleased. Impressed, even. I wish I had something to offer you back.”

“You don’t have to give me anything, angel,” Crowley croaked. “You’re already everything I want. You don’t need to give me any more-”

Aziraphale kissed him again, not knowing how to respond. Or maybe just because he wanted to. He was losing track of how many times they’d kissed.

“Would you like to make me very, very happy?” Aziraphale asked gently, brushing back a stray lock of hair that fell across Crowley’s forehead.

Crowley opened his eyes and looked back at up, intolerably beautiful as always. “Yes,” he breathed back.

Aziraphale smiled. “Alright, then,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb on Crowley’s temple. “I hope you’re a good listener.”

“I can be. For you.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

He moved a step closer, and knocked over the box of beignets, which spilled even more sugar on the carpet. “Oh, drat.” Crowley made to pick them up, and he snapped his fingers, instantly Miracling them away. “There’s no time for that.”

“But...you said, you’d always know it’s there,” Crowley protested.

“I couldn’t care less,” Aziraphale murmured, “Not when we have better things to do.”

Crowley blushed. “Okay,” he relented, giving up on the beignets. “Sure, what do you want to do?”

Aziraphale smiled. 

“Oh, I think I have a few ideas.” 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> What did you guys think of the cover art? Did it hype you up, turn you off, distract you, etc? Please let me know :) I'm considering adding it to future releases!! XD So if that's something you'd love to see more of, please tell me!
> 
> Also follow me on tumblr!!! :D You can find me at the url the-last-real-witch. Can't wait to meet you!!!! :)


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